This Is How It Goes
by ivorykeys09
Summary: Don/Sloan drabbles. Prompts from Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Newsroom or any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Don & Sloan...whispering secrets to each other in bed.**

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**.**

"I hate pineapple."

Don squints in the dark, a little more than confused by what Sloan just said. And why. He turns on his side to face her. "What?"

She turns to face him, mirroring him. "I hate pineapple," she repeats, pulling the covers up over her shoulder. "Remember when you said we didn't know stupid stuff about each other? Well…here. Pineapple. I hate it."

He smiles lazily; he's really tired, since it's three in the morning and he's been up for seventeen—no, eighteen—hours, but her voice is scratchy and low and…he really likes her this way. Sex makes Sloan really chatty.

"Your turn," she whispers, tangling her legs with his.

He hums, thinking. "I've never had lobster before."

Even through the dark, he can see the shock on her face. She sits up, blankets falling off her body. "_What?!"_ she exclaims in disbelief. "How is that possible?"

"My mom is allergic to shellfish, so she never made it. And…I guess I never felt the need to try it."

She lays back down, letting out a sigh. "Keefer, I don't even know what to say to that. The next night we have free, we're going to The Palm. They have the best lobster rolls in the city and you are going to try it."

"Okay," he promises, hoping their next night off is sooner rather than later. Since they'd started dating, they've had a total of four nights off. In other words, not enough. "Your turn."

"My first kiss happened when I was eleven. Trevor Haynes. So bad."

"And so young," he laughs, slightly horrified. "Jesus Sloan." The covers slip off her shoulder as she shrugs. Too tired to come up with a different answer, he cops out and tells the same one. "I was sixteen."

She burrows her feet under his. "Aww. So old. Any good?"

"Oh, it was amazing." She frowns, but he ignores it and adds, "Are you kidding me? I was sixteen; any action at that point was gold."

She smirks. "Fair point." They stop for a few seconds, the idea of sleep too tempting to fight, but Sloan wants to keep playing. His voice is so calming this time of night. "I once T-P'd an ex's house. Well, I thought it was his. Turned out it was the local police chief's house; I'd gotten the address wrong."

Even though he's five seconds from sleep, he can't keep his eyes closed at that one. "You're lying."

"Cross my heart."

He pulls her closer, so they're chest to chest, hip to hip. "Did anyone ever find out?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. I didn't tell anyone. I was too afraid he was going to arrest me." Chuckling softly, she closes her eyes and thinks back. "After a few days they gave up looking for the suspect. Or…me."

"So no one knows still?"

"Nope. You're the one and only."

"I'm touched." He says it jokingly, but really…he is. It may be something small and stupid from the past, but to be Sloan's one and only of _anything_ is enough to make him lose his breath. It's humbling.

"Okay. Last one," she mumbles drowsily. Her eyes haven't opened since she'd close them three minutes ago and he knows they have about sixty seconds before they're both out cold. "Tell me something I don't know about you." She tucks her head under his chin, lips skimming his neck.

Warmth overcomes him as he listens to their breaths, steady and rhythmic with fatigue. He knows if he was wide awake and Sloan wasn't tangled up in him, he wouldn't have the stupid confidence he's somehow gained in this sleepy state. But he whispers it anyway, since it's the only volume he can effortlessly manage, and confesses, "I really like you; more than anyone else I've ever been with."

He doesn't know if she's awake or asleep, if she's heard him or not, if she's cognizant enough to understand what he's just said, but he doesn't really care. He'll tell her over and over again until she does. Because he's never been so sure of anything in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Newsroom or any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Don and Sloan go Christmas shopping.**

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**.**

"I hate crowds," Sloan complains, stopping in the store entrance. She watches Don walk in, obviously assuming she's still beside him, before realizing she isn't. She laughs as he looks around for her, confusion raked through his features.

He rolls his eyes when he spots her still in the doorway. "Sabbith, let's _gooo_."

"Didn't you hear me? Crowds. Holiday crowds. In Manhattan. Three days before Christmas." She pauses, giving him enough time to reach her. He wraps his hands around her waist, looks down at her with amused, smitten eyes. "Do I need to keep going?"

He simply presses a short kiss to her lips, used to her dramatics enough by now to love her for it. "Let's go."

Hands linked, they meander their way around the store. Turns out Williams Sonoma is Sloan's weakness, because she ends up touching and testing every little thing. They really only have just two more people to buy for though, so she really has no right to complain.

But they are the most important people. To him, at least.

Her parents.

He has no idea what the fuck to get them.

Of course, over the past few weeks, every time he'd brought it up she'd just shrugged and said, "They're easy! Get them whatever!"

But if he's learned anything from being the boyfriend and, now, fiancé of Sloan Sabbith…it's that she and anyone else in her bloodline are anything but easy. Her parents are some of the most influential people in Los Angeles circles. There's four books, countless articles, and—to his amazement—one documentary between the two of them. They can afford anything they want, pretty much _have_ everything they want, and yet here he is. In Williams Sonoma. Buying a gift for the "easiest" people in the world.

Looking around, his vision blurs at the array of spices, artisan mixes, home decor, and kitchen nick-knacks.

What the hell was he thinking?

"We should go someplace else," he says quickly, already pulling her to the door. "This isn't the right place. So…what'd ya say? Tiffany's? Cartier? Van Cleef?"

She cocks a brow, amused. "You just named three jewelry stores. What are you thinking of buying them, a ring?"

He sighs, shoving a rough hand through his hair. "Well, what am I going to get them here? A spatula? A cookbook? I hardly think that's a present a future son-in-law should give them. Honestly, I think your father would rescind his blessing and give me back your ring."

"He isn't that scary, Don." At the look he gives her, she shrugs and rolls her eyes. She tried. "Okay, so he's a little scary. But they love you. It's fine." To further emphasize her point, since he still looks totally unconvinced, she kisses his cheek. "See this thing?" Holding up her left hand, she wiggles her fingers; the store lights catch the sparkling diamond and cause rays to bounce off it wildly. "Thanks to this…we now have the _marvelous_ luxury of joint gifts. We're in this together, buddy. Got it? And lucky for you, I have an idea."

Ten minutes later, they walk out of the store with the most expensive, all-inclusive, you-can-make-anything-you-want-with-it-and-more Vitamix model. A tip from her Sloan's sister had shared that her parents were in a total juicing phase and just owned a basic blender.

And as much as Don wants to ask why on earth someone would need a $700 blender, (because, uh, _seriously?_)…he doesn't. Because with this gift, they're done. No more presents to buy, no more crowded stores to visit, no more stressful mall runs. Just a glorious 367 days before he has to do it all again.

She's worth it though.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Newsroom or any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Don and Sloan as frazzled parents.**

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**.**

"_Pick up pick up pick up pick up_," Sloan chants into the phone, silently praying she won't hear his voicemail in five seconds.

"Hello?" (Thank god.)

"Where are you?"

"What?"

"Where. Are. You?"

To his credit, he answers as nicely as possible. "Sloan, babe, I can't hear you."

"That's because I have a crying baby in my arms!" Her voice cracks as she says it, but she's past the point of caring. Lifting her shoulder to hold the phone up to her ear, she uses the hand that's not holding the infant to tempt her with a pacifier. It magically works and gives her a few seconds of silence. "Are you almost home?"

He promises he's three minutes away, so she ends the call and heads into the living room. The change of scenery, or movement, or some other reason she'll never be able to pinpoint is not well received, though, and cries fill the air once more.

Her arms ache from the hours of bouncing, so Sloan settles on the couch, props her feet up on the coffee table, and lays the baby on her knees. The sight is adorably heartbreaking. Tears streak down Lucy's soft, chubby cheeks, her tiny bow mouth is puckered in a pathetic pout, and her little whimpers almost make Sloan want to cry herself.

"I know you're upset, baby, I know," Sloan coos gently, leaning down to kiss Lucy's forehead, unconsciously feeling for a fever. "But I don't know what's wrong, sweetie. Mama doesn't know what's wrong."

As if on cue, she hears the unlatching of locks and the front door opening. When Don appears in the doorway, she's honestly never been so happy to see her husband. It doesn't take long for him to spot her, thanks to the wailing, and when he does he flashes a sympathetic smile. "Hey."

"Hey." Cupping the back of her head and bottom, Sloan gently scoops Lucy up to cradle her against her shoulder and then stands again.

She soothingly rubs the baby's back as she waits for Don to take off his coat and drop his briefcase. "I hate being one of those wives who hands the baby to their husband the second they walk in the door without saying hi or asking how their day was or giving them a kiss hello, but—"

He cuts her off, already reaching for Lucy. "Go. Take a shower. Sleep. Read a book. Take a walk. I don't care. Just go."

Once she's passed off their daughter, she stretches out her arms to loosen the muscles and smiles at him. "Hi husband. How are you? How was your day?"

Chuckling, he shakes his head. "Come here." When she leans in, he presses a soft kiss to her lips. "Go, Sloan. I've got her."

She kisses him again. "Thank you."

She takes a luxurious thirty-minute shower, most of which is spent just standing under the scalding hot water with her eyes closed, and relishes in the feeling of solitude. Don's more than capable to handle things for a little while, further proved by the silence she hears when she steps out of the bathroom, so she takes her time getting dressed. Yoga pants and a cotton long-sleeved shirt sound like the most comfortable idea at the moment, so she just goes with it. It's amazing how brushed hair, clean clothes, and moisturizer make her feel.

She catches sight of her reflection as she hangs up her wet towel. Considering she hasn't really had time to look in the mirror lately, what she sees isn't as bad as she thought it would be. Don tells her every day that she's gorgeous—in that sweet, earnestly genuine, heart-thumping tone he always uses when he's absolutely telling the truth—but she still takes a moment to look at herself. In the four weeks since she's had Lucy, she's pretty much lost all the baby weight, the last few pounds just being in her newly acquired C-cups. She really hadn't been pushing herself to get back into shape so early, since she'd wanted the first few weeks to be devoted to Lucy and Lucy only, but it had honestly just melted off thanks to good genes. Other than the subtle bags under her eyes and ample chest, she looks like the same Sloan as before.

Shutting off the light, she heads for the bedroom door. Even though the small break was heavenly and well-needed, she really misses them.

The sight she's greeted with makes her want to marry Don Keefer again tomorrow. Not only is Lucy asleep in the swing, but he's plating the dinner she should've had ready for them when he'd walked in the door. So before she does anything else, she pads over to her husband, wraps her arms around him from behind, and wordlessly thanks him for being so amazing.

The thing is, even though it's exhausting and frustrating and never-ending, they were totally ready for the baby thing. Lucy was 100% planned and wanted and eagerly awaited for for nine months. But damn. Forget undergrad and grad school and eighteen-hour work days. Parenthood? That was the hard stuff. In that sense, they were wildly unprepared. But they were also wildly unprepared for how in love and obsessed they've become with their little family.

"What worked? I honestly tried everything." She takes a small sip of his wine; enough to satisfy the craving she's had for it all night, but not enough to not be able to nurse Lucy later.

He takes a seat and sets the plates on the table. "She just wanted her dad," he says teasingly, winking at her.

She rolls her eyes lovingly. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm too tired and hungry to insult you this time Mr. Baby-Whisperer-TV-Producer. But rest assured…you're gonna tell me your secret one of these days. Okay?"

Don just nods and pretends like he hadn't already planned on sharing his secret swaddling method with her after dinner. "Okay."


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Newsroom or any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Don and Sloan at Don's high school reunion.**

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**.**

"I can't believe we're actually doing this," Don says as they walk into the gymnasium. The banner above the door makes it real: _Class of '97…Welcome Back! _ "We're here and we're really doing this."

Linking her arm through his, Sloan pulls them further into the basketball court. "Oh, stop. It'll be great."

"Babe, seriously, you do not have to do this. I won't be offended if you go back to the hotel. I promise."

She rolls her eyes at him, then stops the waiter that walks by with a tray of drinks. After clinking Don's glass—scratch that, _plastic_—cup, she takes a sip and bumps his shoulder. "We came all this way. It's your fifteen-year reunion! Let's enjoy ourselves." But as "I Believe I Can Fly" starts playing through the speakers—one of the many bad '90s hits that will surely play this evening—she reconsiders. "Okay, if you really want to go in an hour, we will."

His eyes wander around the room as he kisses her temple in gratitude. The place actually looks pretty nice, all things considered. He'd been a little bummed to read on the invitation that they were having it in the gym, as opposed to a nice hotel downtown, but now that he's on campus again, he's happy to be back. He definitely feels old, that's for sure; especially after seeing that one back-packed kid outside. Nothing looks the same, too, which is kind of sad. Because although he'd like to think that the gym feels bigger to him because he hasn't stepped foot in it since graduation, he knows it's _literally_ bigger than it was fifteen years ago. It's actually a new building entirely, thanks to the astronomical $90 million renovation the school went through three years ago. (He'd donated $500, proudly.) Regardless, it'd given him an excuse to visit his parents for the weekend and take Sloan to all of his favorite childhood spots.

More people fill the room by the second, and although it's hard to discern who's an alum from a wife, husband, girlfriend, so on and so forth, he finally makes out a familiar face. "Wally!" he calls out, before exchanging hand shakes and friendly slaps on the back.

"You're really gonna go there, man?" his friend says good-naturedly, shaking his head. "I haven't been called that in years."

"Seemed appropriate, given the night," Don retorts with a grin, placing his hand on Sloan's lower back. "Sloan, this is my best buddy from high school, Carter Wallace. Carter, this is my girlfriend—"

"Sloan Sabbith," Carter finishes, shaking her hand. "I know who you are. I'm a long-time viewer. You're great."

She hears it a lot, but her eyes still sparkle from the compliment. "Why, thank you Wally. Or…Carter? Which one?"

"_You_ can call me Wally, Sloan. Your boyfriend on the other hand…"

"Hey!" Don protests.

Carter whistles and sips his beer. Looking at Don he says, "Man, I'm torn between asking you how you nabbed her…" his eyes move to Sloan, "and why _you_ picked _him_."

She lets out a laugh, but leans closer to Don just in case he's mildly offended.

After catching up for a few more minutes, Carter wanders off to find his old crush Megan Simmons, who—in his words—is looking better than ever. With promises to meet up later again, Don takes Sloan's hand and leads them around the room to mingle with other classmates. (He swears he didn't actually go to high school with half of these people; but he either didn't pay enough attention or people have _really_ changed.) Most stop them for Sloan, though. Her name gets quickly buzzed around the room and soon people are swamping them to say hi. Usually one to shy away from attention, Sloan uncharacteristically basks in the hubbub of it all and Don just quietly watches it happen. He wasn't the popular kid back in high school by any means; he had girlfriends here and there, but was definitely not the guy everyone wanted to go out with. So to bring Sloan Sabbith—economist, journalist, and, most importantly, his stunning, successful girlfriend—to this reunion?

He feels pretty damn good about it.

Needing a break from all the small-talk, Don pulls Sloan to the side of the room and leans against the folded-in bleachers. As she fixes his collar, Sloan asks, "So…did you hang out here a lot?"

"The gym? Are you kidding?"

She cracks a smile. "Well, then…where'd you hang out?"

"The theater. I was a theater geek."

"That's kinda cute," she says, grinning at the thought. It also explains a lot about him, particularly all of the pseudonyms he'd thought up for the Sandy auction. Leaning into his chest and wrapping her arms around his neck, she lowers her voice, "So, Mr. Sidney Falco, where'd you take all the girls to back in the day?" Her eyes sparkle mischievously.

"Are you asking me to take you to my makeout spot?" He looks amused, but is actually totally into the idea of sneaking out early with her.

"Mmhmm," she hums, tugging him into a kiss.

He doesn't need much convincing. "Okay," he says, taking her hand. "Follow me."


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Newsroom or any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Don x Sloan, with Sloan as a soccer mom.**

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**.**

"I don't know, babe…"

Sloan arches her brow, challenging him to continue his sentence. "Don't know what?"

"I mean, have you ever even _played_ before?" Don asks, pouring her a glass of wine.

Mildly offended, her jaw drops. "Of _course_ I've played before! Every fall season in high school, if you must know." She continues looking through the papers, scrawling her signature on a few lines before signing a check. And just like that: Lucy's signed up for soccer and Sloan's signed up as coach. "I was on varsity all four years. Not only was I a math geek, but I was _also_ an all-star athlete. People loved me—I crossed party lines." She pauses and wrinkles her nose. "Or maybe they hated me."

He grins, but looks surprised. "Varsity all four years? That's actually kind of impressive."

"Mmhmm," she hums in agreement, flipping open her laptop to add the practice schedule to her calendar. Her gaze flits to his and she bats her eyes flirtingly. "But that's nothing new, right?"

.

.

Three weeks later, Don's got Lucy laced up in the smallest cleats he's ever seen, her pinny, knee pads, and elbow pads. Her hair is pulled back in pigtail buns and she's bouncing on her tippy toes in excitement. Unlike his daughter, Don remains unconvinced, and tells Sloan so when she comes into the kitchen.

"Isn't she a little young?" he poses nervously, wondering if there's a helmet he can buy on the way.

Smiling at the sight of Lucy, she rolls her eyes at him and crouches to the ground to be eye-level with her daughter.

"I'm five, daddy," the little girl tells him, as if answering his question, and holding up her small hand. Her eyes are identical to his wife's and all he wants to do is scoop her up and take her anywhere that isn't that damn soccer field.

Sloan smirks proudly and echoes pointedly, "See, daddy. She's five." High-fiving Lucy, she stands up and gathers her bag. "Alright, Lucy Goosey, ready to hit the field?"

"Yeah!" she exclaims, hands flying in the air and nearly elbowing herself in the face.

Laughing at the near-miss, Sloan points to the elbow pads and looks at Don. "Really? That was not on the list of gear to wear."

"Her arms are just so perfect!" Don explains defensively, before lowering his voice so Lucy won't hear. "What if someone hits her with the _ball?_"

Amused, she just hands him the orange cones and kisses him.

It's the perfect fall day once they step outside, and even though he's dreading the next forty-five minutes, he still can't believe this is his life. Grasping both his girls' hands, they make the short walk to the field, all the while listening to Sloan go over the rules one more time to Lucy. They had two weeks of what Sloan calls _practice_and what Don calls _mayhem_. The kids are too young to actually understand specific plays and strategies; soccer at this age is more about teaching teamwork than winning. But after witnessing three practices of kids kicking the ball in every direction imaginable, he has to hand it to his wife. Her patience is astounding. (And she's actually very good at soccer.)

Other parents are already gathered in little groups when they arrive, and kids are running around the field in circles. Sloan had handed out blue and red pinnies to the parents last week for this week's teams, and the grass is just a blur of purple. Getting the situation under control, Sloan blows the whistle and they all run to surround her. "You guys ready to have some fun?" The pack erupts into screams and squeals. "If you're on the blue team, line up over here, and if you're on the red team, line up over _here._" Once they split into two groups, she looks to either side. "Who wants to be goalie today?" Every child shoots up their hand excitedly and she randomly selects two. Don is relieved to see that she's skipped over Lucy, which he knows she did on purpose. They're both not ready to see her get pummeled by soccer balls. After explain the rules again and picking a few kids to stand on the sideline with her as subs, she holds up the ball. "Okay…1..2..3..go!"

He barely talks to his wife throughout the game, since he's too busy watching one particular blue pinny, but he does shoot her a glance when Lucy scores. Sloan erupts into cheers—_way_ more than the coach should for their own child—and Don gives her a look that says _take it down a notch_.

But yeah. He's pretty much bursting with pride too.

The red team wins by one, and there are a few tears from blue-pinnied children, but once juice boxes and apple slices are handed out, all is well.

After giving a pep-talk to the entire team, and randomly assigning colors for next week's scrimmage, Sloan puts away her whistle and meets up with her two.

"Lucy!" Sloan cries excitedly, kneeling on the grass in front of her daughter. "You played _so_ well, sweetie!"

Lucy breaks out in a toothy grin, cheeks rosy. "Thank you," she says bashfully. She lets Sloan press a kiss to her cheek before kicking the ball towards the sidewalk.

As Lucy runs a few paces ahead of them, Sloan stands and wraps her arm around Don's waist to walk with him. "She was amazing; was she not amazing?"

He nods, tilting his head to kiss her temple. "She's amazing."

"We're totally a soccer family now. I _love _it."

Don laughs, before calling out, "Luce! Wait for us there!"

Sloan stops. "But you know what's missing, babe?" The excitement on her face makes him a little nervous; whenever she looks like this, he loses.

"Don't say it," he warns, eerily knowing what's coming next.

"A van. We need a van!"

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**A/N: I always appreciate reviews!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Newsroom of any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Sloan spends the weekend looking after Don who has a cold.**

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**.**

She's walking out of the hair and makeup room when she overhears Mac ask Elliot, "Did you get my email? I'm covering for Don tonight. Let's meet in five to go over the lineup."

Sloan pivots in place, re-routing herself to follow Mac. "Where's Don?"

"Sick," she explains, rifling through the papers in her hands. Absent-mindedly she adds, "Haven't you talked to him today? Don never takes off, so he must really be feeling awful." She looks up and points down the hallway. "Sorry, but I've got to run. Want to get a drink later? I want to show you some dress photos I've ripped out of that bridal magazine you gave me. I'm suddenly inspired."

Sloan smiles, giddy at the thought. "Ooh! I can't wait to see!" She's about to say yes when her thoughts travel back to Don. "Can we do a rain check? Maybe this weekend?"

MacKenzie frowns. "You're not free tonight?"

Shaking her head, Sloan explains, "I have a faculty meeting after my show at four...which I'm going to be late for if I don't head to the desk." She backs away and looks at her watch. "Tomorrow, I promise!"

The 4pm goes off without a hitch, as does the faculty meeting that she barely makes, and by eight o'clock she finally arrives at Don's apartment. In the few hours since she'd found out he was sick, she'd gone from feeling sorry for him to feeling mad.

Steaming mad.

She's dating the man and she'd had to find out from her executive producer that her boyfriend is sick! At 3:57pm! They don't talk or text every second, but she certainly expected a note from him explaining why he wasn't in the office. There are some days where they don't see each other until late afternoon, so not seeing him until 4pm was normal. But still—he should've told her. She's been his girlfriend for three months; they've definitely reached the "you tell each other when you're sick" stage.

She lets herself in using the key he'd given her a few weeks back and finds herself standing in a mostly dark apartment. Seeing a light on his bedroom, she quietly sets down her bag, peels off her coat, and tiptoes into his room.

The glow of the television reflects off of him and even in the low light she can tell he's really sick; he's sprawled out on the bed, blankets on the floor, and with his right arm resting over his eyes.

She walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, leaning down to take off her shoes. She's quiet, but he still stirs awake.

"Hey," he whispers, looking a little surprised to see her.

"Hi," she whispers back. "I'm sorry I woke you. I tried not to make any noise."

He turns on his side to face her more. "It's okay. What time is it?" Even though there's a clock on his nightstand, he makes no move to look at it.

She glances at her watch. "Quarter after eight. How long have you been asleep?"

"In and out for twelve hours."

"Jesus. When's the last time you slept that long?" It's clearly the wrong time to tease him, because he doesn't crack a smile. More seriously, she asks, "Have you eaten anything today?"

"No." Quietly, he says, "I'm sorry I didn't call."

"Oh, honey," Sloan admonishes gently, resting her hand on his. The endearment slips out easily, without thought, but it oddly doesn't bother her. "Don't worry about that." She slides off the floor to kneel beside his head, then feels it for a fever. His skin is burning.

His eyes close again at the cool touch of her hand and he slowly explains, "My migraine was so bad I could barely see, let alone think. I only had enough willpower to text Mac. I'm sorry. It was a dick move."

Her palm traces down his cheek gently. "It's okay." She stays kneeling for another minute, soothingly running her fingers through his hair and head.

When she starts to stand up, he groans. "Don't go," Don mumbles, cracking open his eyes.

She smiles affectionately. "I'll be right back."

Walking into his dark kitchen, she blindly finds the light switch and thinks about what to make him. She's not sure what he has. A fever plus a migraine could be anything: stress, a weird cold, or simply just an awful headache. But he needs to eat—_that_ she knows.

She opens the fridge to survey his grocery situation, silently praying it isn't empty, and sighs in relief. He has exactly what she needs. Grabbing the eggs, cheddar, and milk, she gets to work on an omelette, since it'll be the easiest way to get protein in him. He surprisingly has spinach, too, so she throws that in as well. As she places the bread in the toaster, she smiles at the memory of her mom doing this exact same thing for her whenever she was sick as a child. Breakfast for dinner, even while not feeling well, was always the best.

Once the eggs are done and the toast is buttered, she gets him a fresh glass of water and brings everything to his room. She's surprised to see him sitting up when she walks in; the television is still on mute, the noise probably being too much for his head, but sitting up is a start.

"How're you feeling?"

He shrugs. "A little better. Meds finally kicked in and took the edge off."

After situating him with the plate, napkins, and utensils, she walks to his dresser and rifles through it to grab one of his flannel shirts and a pair of boxers. The boxers are a little big, so she rolls the waistband down a few times to tighten them, and then pulls off her shirt. Don's attention shifts from his dinner to her the moment she's in her bra. She doesn't expect him to look turned on, because he's sick—even though, admittedly, he is—but the look of confusion on his face is even more puzzling.

"You're staying?"

She pauses before she unhooks her bra, briefly wondering why he'd think she would leave. "Yeah," she replies, shrugging like it's no big deal. Because really...it isn't. "I'm staying."

"I'm sick, Sloan. You should go home."

She ignores that statement, instead choosing to steal a bite of his toast, and then goes into his bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth. By the time she's finished, he's done eating, so she wordlessly takes his plate and water glass. As she's loading the dishwasher, she distantly hears the toilet flush and sink running from the other room, so she takes her time in cleaning up. After refilling his water glass again, she grabs her phone charger and heads to the room.

The tv is off now, so she uses her phone light to guide her to his nightstand to set down his water. Exhaustion overcomes her at once, the length of the day suddenly catching up, and she's extra thankful tomorrow is Saturday. By the way Don is burying himself under his duvet—the exact opposite of what he was doing an hour ago—she can tell it's going to be a long night. Whatever he has, it's not close to being over.

She crawls under the covers and tangles her feet with his.

"Why'd you stay? You're gonna get sick," he mumbles lowly.

She rolls her eyes through the dark. "Would you stop with that? I'm already in bed."

It's silent for a beat before he says, "Thank you."

"For what?"

He re-adjusts his pillow, burrows his head more comfortably into it. "Coming here. Making dinner. Staying."

She smiles. With all of the guys she'd dated before Don, she'd never had to do this. When they were sick, they wouldn't call her, and even if they did, she never felt the instinct she'd felt tonight to nurse them back to health. But with Don, it's different. She wants him to feel better, wants to take care of him, wants to tend to his every need. Because if it were the other way around—if she gets sick tomorrow and needs soup but feels too sick to make it and needs someone to rub her head—the only person she'd want there for her is _him_.

Raking her fingers through his hair like she did earlier, she quietly says, "Just go to sleep, okay? I'll be here," and doesn't stop until he is.

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**A/N: I always appreciate reviews! Thanks for reading.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Newsroom or any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Sloan wonders what her life would be like on 4 million a year.**

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**.**

Her deadline is tomorrow. Friday.

Don needs an answer. The recruiter needs an answer.

Four million dollars.

If she made four million dollars a year, she'd have the best closet in the city.

(Well, that's a lie. She doesn't make four million right now, but her wardrobe is still pretty damn good.)

Her current paycheck is 1.5 million. It's not four, sure, but it's better than 95% of the country, and for that she is very grateful. (And that's not counting the residuals from her book and speaking engagement fee.) Her apartment isn't lavish by any means, but it's still a two-bedroom on the Upper East Side. She doesn't go on vacation often, but when she does it's not a cheap. She lives a comfortable life—can afford more than she needs.

When it comes down to it, the difference between her current salary and four million dollars is more. She could just do more. More than she is doing now. If she made four million, she could donate more, save more, invest more, give more, shop more, spend more. Just…more.

When she'd gotten the offer, she'd, admittedly, been dazzled by the number. It was a pretty significant pay raise.

But even as she'd sipped her wine, listened to the recruiter go on and on about how opportunities like this don't come often, she'd also felt a little guilty too. For someone who reports the economic climate three times a day and explains the nitty gritty details about the financial situation of their world and teaches students how they can help nudge the market back up in this struggling economy…

Well, it makes the number seem a bit ridiculous and unnecessary. And wrong.

ACN paid her well—she'd be daft to say otherwise. She'd be gaining money, absolutely, but she would lose so much more. Don. Mac. Maggie. (Don.) Charlie. Jim. Will. (Don.) Neal. Tess. Elliot.

(Don.)

Now, looking down at her pros and cons list she'd typed out on her phone, the answer is pretty clear.

If she says yes—accepts the firm's generous offer, decides to quit ACN, makes the choice to leave what has become her New York family—shewouldn't be happier.

If she made four million dollars, she'd have more money, yes. But she wouldn't have him. Or, more accurately, the possibility of him. He may have told her he was in love with Maggie, that he really did want to move in with her, that he was committed to making it work with her. Those were the words he'd said in his office.

But there was something in his eyes that told her he was wrong. There was doubt there; she saw it. Something told her there was still a chance for her.

So that 2.5 million pay raise she's about to turn down?

It'll be worth it.

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**A/N: This was was super short & more Sloan-based, but I hope you still enjoyed it! :)**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Newsroom or any of its characters.**

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**Prompt: Sloan and Don go house/apartment hunting for their first place together.**

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**.**

Just like she'd wanted, they don't live together until they're actually engaged. It's a unanimous decision that he moves into her apartment, since it's nicer and bigger and has a separate eating and living space. And even though she doesn't mention it, the fact that Maggie was _thisclose_ to moving into his place still rings clear in Sloan's mind.

But the closer they get to the wedding, the closer they get to _marriage_, do they both realize how much they want to move into a new home. Not hers, but _theirs._

So with a recommendation from Will, they meet with Judy Nichols, one of Manhattan's finest brokers. She pelts them with questions the second they sit down.

"Move-in ready? Or fixer-upper?"

Sloan answers, "Move-in ready" the second Don says, "Fixer-upper."

"Seriously?" Sloan questions, brow raised in surprise.

"Yeah," he replies, ignoring the look of judgment flashing across Judy's face. They should have had this conversation before coming here. "If we can afford it, why not buy a place and make it our own?"

"Maybe because we work 70 hours a week and barely have time to grocery shop? And we're planning a wedding?" Frankly, she'd always loved the idea of designing her own home, but the thought itself is incredibly overwhelming. "Keefer, I don't think you're as handy as you keep saying you are," she teases gently.

He smirks in response and takes her hand. "I'm not saying _we_ have to do it. We'll hire professionals."

She still looks unconvinced. "I don't know..."

"If it'll be ready by our wedding night, will you say yes?"

"Yes" she answers quickly, looking at the broker with a smile. "Okay. Fixer-uppers."

Once they tell Judy their budget and location wishlist, they just have to decide how many bedrooms. That's easy. "Two. One master, one guest room," Don says, looking over at Sloan who's nodding in agreement. And with that they head off to see a list of places.

After the first three condos, Don seriously regrets suggesting the idea of renovating. The conditions of each are horrifying. Boxy, cramped rooms, stained carpets, cracked ceilings, crumbling tile. He tries not to look at Sloan, inwardly fearing what her reaction might be, and it doesn't disappoint when he finally glances at her. She looks just as scared. As Judy rattles off about the beautiful original wood floors, his fiancé gets paler and paler.

Judy excuses herself when her phone rings, leaving Don and Sloan in the middle of the dilapidated living room, both afraid to say anything.

She turns to him. "Babe, don't hate me, but I changed my mind. We're getting married in seven weeks! How could _any_ of these places be move-in ready by then?"

His eyes scan the room in the hopes that one spot looks salvageable. No luck.

Just as he's about to answer her, Judy walks back in, "So...what do you think?"

Arm wrapped around Sloan, Don shakes his head, bummed his grand idea failed. "We really thought we would be able to fix up a place, but we greatly underestimated how much work it would be. Could you maybe show us a few..._newer_ condos?"

"I could," Judy nods, leading them to the door, "but my partner just told me about a place that just became available. It hasn't even been listed yet."

"Is it new?" Sloan asks, eyes wide with excitement.

Judy's smile fades a bit, but she barrels on. "No, but I believe this one is a gem. I was able to walk through it last week and it's spectacular. If you can get past the peeling wallpaper and cramped rooms, the possibilities are endless. The walls can be torn down to make it more open-concept, and the light nearly floods in the large windows. The only thing is...it's a bit larger than what you were looking for."

Don shrugs and glances at Sloan. "Might as well look, right?"

Judy's right. It's a gem. The second they walk in they know it's their home. It's in the perfect location on a gorgeous, safe, Upper East Side street, with restaurants within walking distance and a park around the corner. The herringbone wood floors are in decent condition, nothing a scrub and seal wouldn't fix, and the crown molding makes the ceilings look eleven feet tall. It's on two floors, has roof access, and has bedrooms that are larger than what most have in Manhattan. Four bedrooms, to be exact. The sheer size has Don doubting it's in their price range, so he winces as he asks, "What're they asking?"

Judy hands him the listing spec sheet. "Just over one million. I think we could possibly get it down a _bit_, mainly because of the work that needs to go into it, but honestly...it's a steal. The price per square-footage is unheard of in Manhattan."

Don looks at Sloan, who's biting her lip as she studies the fireplace mantle. He knows she's not admiring it though—she calculating the numbers in her head.

"I'll give you two a minute."

When Judy's gone, Don walks over to the window and looks down at the street. For a place in the heart of the city, there is barely any noise.

After a minute of silence, Sloan's voice breaks it. "I think we should do it."

He looks over in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes. Or...I'm pretty sure. I mean, maybe not? But...I want to. I think." She bites her lip again.

He laughs. "Which one is it?"

A wide smile spreads across her face. "Let's buy it. We can afford it. I've gone over our finances, like, ten times in my head—"

He smirks. "I'm sure you have."

"And we can definitely do it," she repeats again. "Besides, this means we don't need to move in a few years. If we have kids, I mean."

He pulls her close to him, hands tight around her waist. "Kids?" he asks, smiling, because she's been hesitant about that notion.

Sloan's cheeks redden. "I'm warming up to the idea more."

"This feels like a big moment. This is big, right?"

She nods, agreeing. "It's big."

"Okay." He kisses her, celebrating the moment. "Now all that's left is getting married. We can still afford to do that, right? The wedding, I mean?"

She sighs happily. "Only if I can convince my mom to uninvite my entire extended family. Which needed to happen anyway." She kisses him again and gives him a dazzling smile. "Come on, pal. Let's go sign some papers."

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**A/N: I always love & appreciate reviews!**


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